“Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. There is no other possible explanation. Prove otherwise, Falcone, and you can have my job. God knows there’s times I’d happily do without it.”
Falcone looked tempted by the offer. Costa could understand why. The idea of a leisurely investigation that guaranteed them all an early ticket home was attractive, even in these extraordinary circumstances.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Falcone asked.
Randazzo suddenly turned hopeful. “Go through the statements we already have. Take a look at the scene. Interview the Arcangeli again if you want. Together. One by one. It’s up to you. This night-watchman character is probably worth talking to again too. Anyone else you feel. I should warn you that you’re going to have to talk to the dead woman’s family. The Braccis. They’re regular customers of ours. Petty crime. You name it. A bunch of assholes. My, are they going to be pissed off right now.”
“What about the morgue?” Costa asked.
“Go in and ask for what you want. We’ve got a good pathologist. Tosi’s been here for years. I’m not asking you to cover up anything. I just want an efficient establishment of the facts, then a report I can wave everywhere and say this matter is dead and buried. Understood?”
Commissario Randazzo paused, a little fearful. Then, when he heard no objections, not even from Peroni anymore, he looked at his watch and raised half a smile.
“Don’t rush. That would look bad. When it’s done, disappear on vacation. You’ll have earned it.”
He waited, nervous.
Peroni leaned forward, paused, just to give the commissario a nasty turn. “We’re going to need a boat,” he insisted. “Our own boat. With a driver too.”
“Of course,” Randazzo said quietly. “Except you don’t call it—”
The small puff of an explosion interrupted the commissario, loud enough to make them all jump. There was the sound of a man’s excited shouts. Nic Costa turned to try to see what was happening.
A flame now emerged from the torch at the end of the iron angel’s extended hand. The silver-haired individual who’d been working at the cables watched it.
“Michele Arcangelo,” Randazzo said by way of explanation. “He’s the
capo
around here.”
A smiling
capo
, Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn’t take his eyes off the beacon of fire he’d just been able to revive.
9
N IC COSTA SURVEYED THE BLACKENED INTERIOR OF the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters’ hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who’d entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene?
All three had quietly acquiesced in the face of the commissario’s demands. There was precious little point in arguing anyway. Besides, each of them was, Costa knew, tempted by what was on offer, in spite of the immediate loss of leave. Conduct a thorough investigation, produce a sound, predictable report on a crime which seemed a closed case from the outset, then enjoy some extra holiday at the end before returning to Rome. The circumstances were unusual but not, perhaps, unknown, particularly in Venice. Besides, Emily was free of college work for the next month. They could visit Sicily first, perhaps, or make a lazy progress back to Lazio through Tuscany and Umbria.
Provided they gave Gianfranco Randazzo and the Englishman to whom the commissario seemed somehow beholden exactly what they wanted.
He and Falcone had walked carefully around the foundry, first examining the furnace where the woman’s remains had been recovered, then looking at the chalk outline around the stained and partially missing portion of planked flooring where Uriel Arcangelo had fallen. And examining the peripheral details too. The shattered windows were
Falcone looked tempted by the offer. Costa could understand why. The idea of a leisurely investigation that guaranteed them all an early ticket home was attractive, even in these extraordinary circumstances.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Falcone asked.
Randazzo suddenly turned hopeful. “Go through the statements we already have. Take a look at the scene. Interview the Arcangeli again if you want. Together. One by one. It’s up to you. This night-watchman character is probably worth talking to again too. Anyone else you feel. I should warn you that you’re going to have to talk to the dead woman’s family. The Braccis. They’re regular customers of ours. Petty crime. You name it. A bunch of assholes. My, are they going to be pissed off right now.”
“What about the morgue?” Costa asked.
“Go in and ask for what you want. We’ve got a good pathologist. Tosi’s been here for years. I’m not asking you to cover up anything. I just want an efficient establishment of the facts, then a report I can wave everywhere and say this matter is dead and buried. Understood?”
Commissario Randazzo paused, a little fearful. Then, when he heard no objections, not even from Peroni anymore, he looked at his watch and raised half a smile.
“Don’t rush. That would look bad. When it’s done, disappear on vacation. You’ll have earned it.”
He waited, nervous.
Peroni leaned forward, paused, just to give the commissario a nasty turn. “We’re going to need a boat,” he insisted. “Our own boat. With a driver too.”
“Of course,” Randazzo said quietly. “Except you don’t call it—”
The small puff of an explosion interrupted the commissario, loud enough to make them all jump. There was the sound of a man’s excited shouts. Nic Costa turned to try to see what was happening.
A flame now emerged from the torch at the end of the iron angel’s extended hand. The silver-haired individual who’d been working at the cables watched it.
“Michele Arcangelo,” Randazzo said by way of explanation. “He’s the
capo
around here.”
A smiling
capo
, Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn’t take his eyes off the beacon of fire he’d just been able to revive.
9
N IC COSTA SURVEYED THE BLACKENED INTERIOR OF the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters’ hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who’d entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene?
All three had quietly acquiesced in the face of the commissario’s demands. There was precious little point in arguing anyway. Besides, each of them was, Costa knew, tempted by what was on offer, in spite of the immediate loss of leave. Conduct a thorough investigation, produce a sound, predictable report on a crime which seemed a closed case from the outset, then enjoy some extra holiday at the end before returning to Rome. The circumstances were unusual but not, perhaps, unknown, particularly in Venice. Besides, Emily was free of college work for the next month. They could visit Sicily first, perhaps, or make a lazy progress back to Lazio through Tuscany and Umbria.
Provided they gave Gianfranco Randazzo and the Englishman to whom the commissario seemed somehow beholden exactly what they wanted.
He and Falcone had walked carefully around the foundry, first examining the furnace where the woman’s remains had been recovered, then looking at the chalk outline around the stained and partially missing portion of planked flooring where Uriel Arcangelo had fallen. And examining the peripheral details too. The shattered windows were
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